


Ballistic Ordnance (I dodged)

by AllAroundWinner



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: "The" Armorer, Baby Yoda is like a sloth, Blind Character, Gen, ISH--his helmet's broken so he can't see, Old!Mandalorians, he clings to his papa, more like "AN" armorer, mute character, mysterious force-user
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllAroundWinner/pseuds/AllAroundWinner
Summary: Mando's vow means everything to him, but a hard battle for the Kid's life leaves his helm cracked, battered, and broken.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 427





	1. The Tribe

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking a look--to tell this story I'll be writing the scenes I want to write and just..kindof..glossing over the others hope you don't mind. UPDATE 9/2020: I have an outline—y’all this is uncharted territory

Every enclave is different, but even this one seems a little far off the map. Moss hangs from the ceilings, fungi grow from the walls, and the sound of trickling water is never too far away. It even smells damp. It seems like a good place for foundlings to spend their younger years. Perhaps, in rarer cases, a good place for elders to live out their last. Moss is kind to bare feet and worn out joints. Or, in the Mandalorian's case, to tired bones still recovering from battle. 

It does present its own challenges, though. The ground is soft and thus, uneven. It takes considerable effort for the warrior in gleaming beskar to keep from stumbling. His helmet is dented, the visor is cracked, and its visibility function is alarmingly low. Even now he is escorted through the covert by his hand on a foundling's shoulder, ears working overtime. 

Despite the ringing in his head, he can hear the covert's inhabitants stop as he passes, unsure whether they're intrigued by the sight of him or the smell. His left eye is swollen, probably infected, but the Child has stuck to him like a burr since the fight yesterday. Every effort to remove him leads to ear splitting cries and Force-infused tantrums. Without being able to remove his helmet, the wound has gone untreated; his only sustenance, that which can fit through a straw. 

This covert feels like a maze. Every doorway, he feels the brush of something growing down through the entry. He hasn't lost count of paces, or turns, or numbers of doors, but his head is starting to swim from the intense concentration. He hopes this armorer keeps a chair in her foundry.

After the eighteenth overgrown doorway, he smells a difference in the air, and the ambient heat rises. They must have arrived at the foundry. 

He hears movement from behind.

"That smells infected."

Some of the tension leaves his body and he nearly loses footing. They've never met, but there's no mistaking the tang of hot metal in the air, or the steel in her voice. This must be the Armorer.

"It probably is," he answers. "Do you have a chair?"

"I have a table."

"A table will do."

She makes no move to show him to the table. She sends the foundlings away. 

"Why don't you clean it?" she asks, "Unless the vomit and blood down your neck are a fashion choice."

His ears heat like a chastened child. "I can't remove it."

Her teeth click from behind her helmet as she circles him, hands and eyes examining the damage. "What caused it?"

Memory supplies the washed out blindness of his visor, the scream of the missile heading towards him.

"Ballistic ordnance."

"Curious that you survived."

"I dodged."

Her fingers prod at his visor, tilting his head this way and that. His hands itch to stop her, to anchor his helm more firmly.

"Is that table nearby?" he asks, receiving only a hum in response.

Her hands finally stop their exploration, and she walks briskly away. There is tapping at the interface of her forge. She is presumedly designing the repair to his helmet.

He shifts on his feet, impatient and inadvertently bumps the table with his thigh. Finally. He sits on it. "I need to see an elder," he says casually, "I heard you have a few."

"You are not of our clan."

This is not the expected answer.

"No."

"You are from Navarro."

He hesitates. "Yes." She hears it.

"We have heard of you, Mandalorian."

There is silence. 

"We have heard of the Child."

His heart beats like he never left the battle. Every pulse of it throbs through his ears and face and he strains to hear anything, everything. Air flows from somewhere, but the doorway behind him seems still. She hasn't left the interface, but her hands have quit typing.

His clan defended him. Will the Tribe?

The air is as heavy and thick as the silence, pressing in on his tired body. His head feels like cotton, like floating, like sinking. In the darkness of his visor, he closes his eyes--a shrill cry from under his cloak snaps them open. Vertigo hits his stomach and he pitches forward, hand snapping up to make some space between his mouth and the helmet. There's not as much danger of suffocation this time, not when his stomach's been empty for hours.

"The Child is with you?" she asks. She's much closer. He hadn't heard her move, but she's still outside of his range. Smart.

He decides to screw secrecy. The Tribe will either support him or they won't.

"Kid won't leave me alone. Only reason he's not on the ship is I haven't been able to pry him off me."

"I can give you a hood for the Child, to keep your vow intact, and alert the elders you wish to meet with them. In the meantime, I will loosen a joint in your helmet and give you space to change into a spare. What your clan cherished, the Tribe will defend. This is the Way."

"This is the Way."


	2. The Elders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How far we Mandalorians have fallen," the old, Grisled One drawls, "if one of your status can't even raise a child." 
> 
> Din's tongue runs away from him, as sharp and cutting as his blade. "If you know how to move things with your mind or choke your enemies from a distance, then please be my guest. Maybe I'll leave him here and let you fend off the Empire for yourself--since you did such a good job last time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, guys, just--wow. Thank you for such an enthusiastic response! I do have a plan for where this will go. We'll see how canon is stays, yeah?

True elders--those who gained the title by age rather than experience--are a rarity. The Clone Wars, the Purge, the aftermath--elderly Mandalorians should be the stuff of legend and lore. But it is for exactly this reason that the Razorcrest touched down on this planet at all. Lore. Legend. Whispers of the enemy Jedi are what he needs right now and he has followed them--everywhere he can. They've lead to nothing but dead ends and laughing bartenders, flesh and metal and spite. If he's ever going to get the Child home, he needs somewhere to start.

Right now, starting means getting the little womp rat into the Armorer's hood so Din can take off his helmet for repair. It takes some wrestling and some increasingly stern language, but eventually the kid relents. He relaxes the death grip from his caretaker's side and allows himself to be placed on a surprisingly sturdy outgrowth of fungi. Soon enough he's hooded, gurgling and chortling, curious as ever but content.

This tight space they occupy is just as odd as the rest of this place. It's little more than a craig with a door. Slime coats stone, roots have worked in and out of the wall from somewhere, and the moss emits a faint purple glow. It does very little to help the Mandalorian assess his eyesight once his helmet does come off.

Almost immediately, he applies a bacta patch to his throbbing face. It's quick work and it cuts his remaining vision in half, but he can feel the pressure easing up, feels the fog start to clear from his brain. For a few scant seconds he enjoys the cool air. He breathes easier without the filter in front of his nose but, like any other pleasure in his life, it's fleeting. There's more work to be done.

The Kid's pulling at the fabric of his little hood--making small joyful sounds like it's some sort of game. Din won't begrudge him some joy after the last several days of mayhem, so he tugs the hood firmly down from time to time while cleaning up the vomit and blood. Apparently he's not doing too poorly at this caretaker thing, because the Kid reacts like this is the greatest game ever played. Din doesn't bother hiding his smile--the foreign helmet soon does it for him--and he spends longer than necessary cleaning up. It could be the bacta, but each giggle and shriek of laughter loosens the grip of a desperate coil in his chest. He's almost--

"Do you require assistance?"

Well…he was wasting time, anyway. It's time to keep moving.

"No, thank you, we're done."

"Then, by all means, let us begin."

\------

The room of the elders is modest, empty for all but a few chairs. Din is left to wait for their arrival alone.

He is still assessing the repairs to his helmet—although "repair" isn't quite the word. "Overhaul" is more like it. Most of the components are still original, but it feels new. Different. The visor and most of the sensors had to be replaced completely, so Din puts his temporary abandonment to good use and re-familiarizes himself with the equipment.

He cycles through its vision settings and sees the heat signatures of a group of people a few rooms away. At this distance and with the new sensitivity of his sensors he identifies one as the Armorer. She seems to be in conversation with the others. He tentatively concludes that these are the elders.

It's a short conversation, over as soon as he makes note of it. Three make their way towards the room. The fourth--the Armorer--exits away through the moss-covered corridors. It's slow progress. One moves at a slower rate than the others, but they've adapted their pace to accommodate. Details clear as they get closer. One of the elders goes unmasked.

Alone in the room, Din switches the settings back to normal and arranges himself away from the doorway, out of the immediate line of sight. He may be among the Tribe, but he's not going to put himself in an indefensible position, not with half his sight under bacta and the Kid clinging under his cape.

The first to enter wears heavy armor, green and blue barely visible underneath the pocks and scrapes gained over a seemingly long life in battle. This Mandalorian is a tank--large, heavily armored, and heavily armed. Not the biggest Din's ever seen, but four arms offer a distinct advantage. Each vambrace holds a different weapon--the cannon and flamethrower are readily identifiable. He would think twice before engaging this warrior without a plan, even with his age.

The second to enter is slim, tall, and the slowest of the three. _Mir'shupur_ stands out, blazoned clearly on an elongated helmet. Brain trauma. The armor is bright, splashes of orange and yellow that contrast strongly with slow, deliberate movements. Something about it pings his memory, but it’s not unreasonable that they might have met before.

Behind is the third. He holds his helmet proudly, a flowering sprig painted defiantly bright on its crown. His face is weathered and pinched, scarred and grisly. Human. His eyes are narrowed and astute. He doesn't search around the room when he enters. He knows exactly where Din is standing. Knows exactly where to focus his glare.

They enter. They sit. They stare. Din wonders if he is somehow on trial.

The Big One is first to speak. His voice is resonant and deep. It's a fitting sound for such an imposing figure and Mando'a flows richly off his tongue. He speaks like one born to it. He probably was.

"I see you're still alive. We hear the trouble from Navarro has been hard to shake off."

Din's own Mando'a is just as flawless, his attachment to the language of his saviors having long since abolished any accent of his youth.

"I'm surprised you heard of Navarro. We thought we were alone."

"As did we. But some of your enclave found us and the Tribe is growing again. You probably saw some of your foundlings on the way in."

"That's good. I didn't. My helmet was broken--"

The Grisled One chuffs. His stare unwavering.

"Did I say something funny?"

The Slim One makes a gesture--quick, but not sharp. Slender hands continue emphatically--Din recognizes the signs.

" _Don't mind him. He clings to the days when every Mandalorian could master the forge. Times have changed_."

"That's true. I was brought up in the Fighting Corps and never spent much time in the foundry. Some of Navarro's foundlings showed promise, though, I hope they made it here."

" _The Fighting Corps? I don't recognize your signet._ "

Now he remembers—she had been an instructor once, but never one of his.

"It's new,” he says, “A mudhorn. My sigil was revealed when I gained my foundling. If you've heard of what happened on Navarro, you've heard of him and there are things he must learn that I can't teach him. I need to get him to his own people. From what I've heard, you can help."

"How far we Mandalorians have fallen," the Grisled One drawls, "if one of your status can't even raise a child."

Din's tongue runs away from him, as sharp and cutting as his blade.

"If you know how to move things with your mind or choke your enemies from a distance, then please be my guest. Maybe I'll leave him here and let you fend off the Empire for yourself."

His words stop, a hard cut, thoughts simmering at the tip of his tongue-- _since you did such a good job last time._

There is silence. Din's almost unsure he didn't speak aloud. The Grisled One leans forward as if he heard the thought anyway. Maybe he's been thinking it himself for years. Maybe they all have.

" _To be clear_ ," the Slim One says with smooth hands, " _Your foundling does these things--affects people and objects without touching them?_ "

"Yes. All I've been able to gather is a name from our history."

" _Jetii_."

"Yes."

\------

The rest of the meeting is short. Din is shown to a small room to wait, to tend to his armor, to stew.

The bacta should have finished its work by now and Din's anxious to claim a full field of vision. He tries to put the hood back on the Kid, only the Kid seems to think it's playtime and his guardian isn't in the mood.

"Stop it,” Din reprimands, “keep this on."

Little green hands tug again.

There's just enough time to pull off the patches before he sees a nose peeking out from under the hood. He pulls down roughly with both hands. The Kid squeaks in dismay and Din doesn't care.

"I told you to stop, Kid."

He sighs, tired. He hasn't slept yet.

It's been near 50 hours since the Kid was abducted, 15 or 20 since the fight. The eye might be better, but it's no substitute for natural rest. He probably wouldn't have snapped at the elders if he'd gotten a little shut-eye, not that it had been safe before he treated the concussion. He should probably sleep now.

The little green monster is carefully still.

Din puts his helmet back on and gently takes off the hood. Big dark eyes stare back. Din has been drawn in by those eyes since day one and he gives in to them more often than he should. Giving in is what started this mess and the messes have been getting messier.

"You have to listen to me when I tell you to do something, Kid. When I tell you to keep the hood on, you keep the hood on. When I tell you to be quiet, you gotta stay quiet. And when I tell you to stay on the ship, you have to _stay on the damn ship_. Yesterday was too close, Kid. We can't do that again."

The soft noises might be some sort of agreement. His big ears are at least droopy and he looks somewhat repentant. Din will take what he can get. It's going to be a long process.

But it can start after they've both had a nap.


	3. It's Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hi."
> 
> "Hi. You got a name, stalker?"
> 
> "No."

A small, isolated structure sits tucked among a cascade of crystal mountains. It's eerie. Carved out of the cliff side itself, the walls glitter with ice and minerals. The edges are soft, old--worn down by time and the wind that whistles through its corridors. Far older than other such structures Mando has visited, no relics or doors remain here. The temple is empty.

The last one was empty, too, and the one before that. For months, Mando's searches have ended in futility. The first, so far, was the biggest. It took days to get through. By the end Mando was frustrated, the Kid was frustrated, the whole damn planet was frustrated and the bounty he'd picked up barely covered the cost of getting there. Wherever the elders got their tips must be a community well because each temple so far has been dry. None hold the instructional texts he'd been given hope might exist--just the occasional charred sanctuary, vestiges of the former Emperor's attritive rampage.

This place, at least, hasn't been burnt out. Instead it seems to glow. Light diffuses softly through opaque, white halls, blending together in a seemingly endless maze. Mando relies on his visor to navigate, but leaves one hand trailing the walls.

He glances through a window and spies the Crest. It's a little exposed up on the ridge but the forest below the cliffs is too dense for a ship of its size. Mando's not concerned about being followed. Weather this inhospitable ought to be cover enough on its own and he doesn't plan on a long absence. It's really the hatch he's checking, anyway. Bad dreams left the Kid in a sour mood so he fought Din leaving, but at least it doesn't look like he followed. That smells like progress.

He hadn't even really wanted to leave the Kid behind but his options were limited. With winds too wild for the rising phoenix, Mando has to take the long way 'round. Climbing down a steep, ice-slicked mountain is taxing enough without another life thrown into the mix but it has to be done: the elders' info leads here--here and several other burnt out sites because the archives are no good. Most of those are scrubbed clean of anything that's not anti-Jedi propaganda. Even the few "Church of the Force" acolytes he's unearthed are simply adherents to a code, lacking in any real power. Temples and texts are his next best option. Beyond that the rumors lead to the new Republic and that's not a hornet's nest he's willing to kick just yet. Temples, at least, don't keep a visitors' log.

Mando keeps moving, controlled haste in his steps. The rooms are empty and quickly swept, but he stays vigilant. Speed makes no excuse for carelessness. He's found that the Jedi were fond of hidden rooms. It confused him until he realized that the spaces were once meant to be accessed by Force-users, probably well trained ones. Maybe at one time it took training to even know they were there. Not so anymore, of course, scanners and detonators work just as well for a Mandalorian. But if he were in charge of protecting ancient texts, that's where he'd hide them.

He's descended a few floors into the mountain before he finds one, and it's not what he expects. Normally he'll find a cubby or a small room. Here, though, he's found a whole 'nother level. A set of stairs hides behind a finely crafted wall, descending deep into the cliff side.

Mando does not let himself hope as he sets the sonic charges. Something bright and clear swells in his chest anyway.

The frequencies sweep through the minerals and the structure crumbles. Once a bright wall, a chasm of darkness takes its place, the staircase winding down and down. All but the first few steps are lost in obscurity.

It's not a problem. He switches to low-light vision and steps forward.

The descent eventually levels into a hallway, vestibules lining each side. They appear to have served as meditation nooks, each containing a low shelf where one might kneel or sit. There are eight in total, four on each side and no more. He appears to have reached another empty end. Bright and clear shrivels down to empty grey.

For all the strides forward he's made with the Kid, nothing really compares to knowing what he's doing. He learned young that he's as likely to hurt himself with an unfamiliar weapon as someone else, and Din doesn't need an imagination to know how dangerous the Kid's power can be. He sighs.

It's time to get back to the ship. He's spent too long chasing paper ghosts.

There's a hiss of wind teasing his ears. It must be coming from a secondary exit. Mando flips to thermals to find the source of the cold, but it's something else that catches his breath, something else that sends sparks crackling through his heart: the exit vestibule reads blue--the floor of another vestibule reads red.

Someone was here. Someone knelt here just long enough to warm the ground, feet and knees leaving a distinct pattern against the cold, cold crystal. The impression is fading--and so is his lead.

Mando wastes no time setting his charges and shatters the exit wall. He surges forward into a world of white. Snow swirls everywhere, kicking up at the base of the mountain. He's in the forest he saw from above. The snow is high, near his knees. It slows him down, but his way is clear: the tracks of his new target are fresh and deep.

It doesn't take much time to catch up. The target is alone and unhurried. Bipedal, humanoid. Its bulky white clothing offers decent camouflage, but does nothing for its movements or the trail left in the snow. Whomever they are they don't seem concerned about being followed, and that's fine. There's a bag slung over their shoulder and Mando won't mind if there's no challenge to getting it.

Up ahead lies a clearing and, almost certainly, a ship. Once they get closer Mando can see the landing gear through the trees. The target steps through.

"So," the man calls out. He's answered by a series of bleeps from a droid. "Are you going to introduce yourself?"

There doesn't seem to be anyone else in the clearing. The droid makes a noise that doesn't sound like an answer.

"No, I'm talking to the guy who's been stalking me through the woods. Were you planning on saying hi anytime soon?"

Oh. Well damn.

Mando clears the forest and bites back another curse. The ship is an X-Wing with a Rebel paint job. The odds of staying away from the New Republic are getting slimmer and slimmer.

The bag has disappeared, probably into the cockpit, and the man is turned to face him. Wry smile, eyebrows raised, and his posture is ostensibly relaxed. There's some sort of canister on his belt, though. His hand doesn't stray far from it.

Mando makes no pretense. His hand rests comfortably on his blaster.

"Hi."

"Hi. You got a name, stalker?"

"No. You got those books you found?"

It's a gamble. It's a gamble but Mando doesn't think he's wrong and judging by the expression flickering across the other man's face, he isn't.

"You're not here for me?"

"It's my day off. Was planning to do some reading, though."

"But you're a bounty hunter."

"You got a bounty?"

That clams him up. His expression settles on suspicion, but there's nothing to read in the mask of a beskar helmet. He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them. He settles into his posture, cool gaze confident.

"You've wasted your time. There's nothing you need here."

Something sickly bubbles up in Mando's gut. It's dark and tinged with guilt. Months of searching for just another dead end? A large part of him is ready to slink back to the ship, back to the warmth and back to when things were simple.

But what would that fix?

His insides spark, burning the sickly roil until all that's left is simmering determination.

"I like to be sure. Let me see your bag."

"You don't need my bag."

"No, I need the books inside of it," he bites out.

Ah, there's the tension the man was hiding. This is the sort of confrontation Mando's used to and it's a clear indicator that the man has something worth protecting. That's fine. Mando's got something worth fighting for.

He pulls out his blaster and holds it easily at his side.

"Let me see your bag."

"Why?" The man's hand rests on the canister now. It's definitely some sort of weapon.

"I thought I made that clear," Mando says, but the man's not budging. He sighs. "I tell you what. You have a bounty on your head. I'm a bounty hunter. You hand over those books and I forget this ever happened. I came to the Temple, I found the books and I left."

The man's eyes lock solidly on him, a piercing blue.

Mando urges him again.

"It's a good deal. You should take it."

It's clear where this is going the second the man's expression shuts down.

"These texts," he grits out, "belong to the Jedi."

"The Jedi are gone," Mando taunts. "Now? They belong to the highest bidder."

The man-- _the Jedi _\--__ lauches into action and holy kriffing hells, that canister's a saber. The Mandalorian dodges and the blade burns behind him, a shower of smoldering pine in its wake. He takes a shot but the saber blocks it so he shoots again three, four, five times. The blade _whiirs_ into position, blocking each blast with the hum of something otherworldly.

Mando squeezes his blaster, shots aimed high while his other vambrace goes low. He sends out a line to confuse the Jedi's feet and it works for a second until an unseen force grabs the line and pulls him close. Mando activates his flamethrower in desperation. If he gets in range of that saber he's dead. 

The man's not caught in the blast. He flips high overhead, impossible for a human, and comes down with the full force of his blade. Mando turns and braces, arms crossed high, ready for the heat and the end.

It's scorching and he can feel his flesh burning only--only his vambraces have caught the blow. The blade surges, bearing down, discoloring the beskar with its green heat. Beneath the armor there's pain, but to both of their surprise, Mando's still got arms to feel it with.

Holy shit.

Well, he's not going to waste the opportunity. Kicking out, he presses upward to dislodge the blade and his attacker. He follows through with a fist to the face and the Jedi falls. The saber lands somewhere to the side. Mando pushes through with his advantage, vibroblade ready to quiver at the hollow of the man's throat.

But an invisible hand wraps around his chest and he's thrown back into the snow. Weight presses down on top of him and no amount of effort on his part can dislodge it. He lies at the Jedi's mercy.

With no effort at all, the saber flies back into the man's hand. He takes a moment to look down at the bounty hunter. Mando sees nothing but a tired sort of indifference. 

He walks away.

The forgotten astromech chirps and the X-Wing's engines flare to life.

"Wait."

The man ignores him.

"Wait, wait!"

He starts climbing the ladder.

"No, wait, please--please, stop."

"Tell your buyer they're gone."

"I lied!"

The man does stop at that.

"There's no buyer. There's--" kriff, he can't say it, he can't give the Kid away like that--"Someone. A person who needs them. Just, just let me read them or take stills or something, I don't care."

Mando voice is even, but he knows he sounds desperate. At least desperate seems to be working because the snow crunches and the man returns. He throws Mando's blaster across the clearing, sends his blade into the trees.

The pressure lifts from his chest and Mando sits up, but somehow doesn't breathe any easier. 

The man finds his eyes through the visor and the weight of his gaze is relentless. 

"Talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such secret. Very mystery.
> 
> But look at this, guys, I wrote an action scene! Pretty new and exciting for me. Speaking of writing--if you're someone who knows how and have any pointers or wisdom to drop then please, please do. I think I'm getting better and I want it to continue that way.
> 
> You may or may not have noticed, but I upped the rating to T because I give Mando a little bit of a potty-mouth.
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all.


	4. Emergent Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of him doesn't want to--but by his creed, to do right by the Child, Din asks: "This school. Would it be safe?"
> 
> "You mean, would your son be safe from Imperials?"
> 
> "He's--" _not my son_ , he can't say. "…would he be safe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while and I thank you for your patience. This chapter went a million different ways until it became all the ways at once. Happy reading, friends.

Mando wants access to the Jedi texts which the Rebel refuses to relinquish. The Rebel Jedi wants information on the "Force-sensitive" individual that Mando's fostering which he refuses to give. They are at an impasse. They stand knee deep in snow, each of them determined to outlast the other while the wind indiscriminately freezes them both.

"Is your ship nearby?"

"No," Mando answers but it's not an answer, it's a wall. It holds none of the inflection of a response. 

"No, it's not close?"

"No, I'm not telling you."

A tick of irritation flutters over the Rebel's face, punctuated by a low, drawn out whistle from the X-Wing's astromech. Beneath his helmet, the Mandalorian grins. 

However, completely stonewalling his only resource isn't likely to lead to success. The Jedi might have the upper hand in combat, but Mando's got the Kid and the Jedi's not making any effort to disguise his eagerness to meet. 

"Alright," he concedes, "You want to meet this person, fine. But my contact means we do this on my terms."

"And what would those be?"

"You hand over one of those books--"

His visor washes red, stealing his breath with an alarm that squeals in his ears. 

"Shit."

A small image projects on the screen of his helmet. Acid drips onto his limbs. The Crest's proximity sensors have been tripped and all Mando can see is the suggestion of movement against a white rage of snow. Fuck.

"What is it?" The Jedi has one hand on the ladder of his X-Wing, poised for action like a fighter pilot.

Fighter pilot. Right. 

"Change of terms," he says, thumbing off the alarm. "I need a ride to the top of that ridge," _now,_ "You help me get there, we can talk."

This puts Mando in his debt. He knows that, they both do, but for the briefest space of a second the man doesn't look like he plans on moving. Impatience bypasses Mando's nerves completely and heads straight for his mouth.

"Look," he grits, "you have two seconds to decide if you're going to cooperate. My ship is compromised and my child is up there alone. You want to meet him or not?"

The Jedi meets his eyes through the visor. Mando's getting to the Crest one way or another. 

They both move at once. 

"Hope you've got a good grip."

"Hope you can fly straight."

Mando swings onto the fuselage, ignoring the sharp twinge of the burns beneath his bracers. He hooks an anchor, digs his hands in around the droid. "Just above the temple," he calls. "You'll see my ship on the ridge. Get there fast and be ready for company." 

"What kind of company?"

Flickers of white on snow. "The Imperial kind."

\---

The X-Wing screams over the ridge and the bodies below scramble quickly for cover. They stick close to the RazorCrest, knowing their small (short range) ship offers no protection. The Jedi pulls around for an attack run which lets Mando slip down behind the Crest. He strikes while the troop carrier shatters in explosions. 

The first two go down easy, vibroblade slipped between plates of armor, their attention turned away by the carrier's destruction. Shaking out the lightening in his arms, Mando grabs the next to use as a shield and starts blasting, aiming immediately at a group of three clumped by the Crest's side door. One of them's got a torch and the damage is visible. This is where Mando clusters his fire. They return fire immediately, hit his shield relentlessly and Mando takes the full brunt of their comrade's dead weight. Pain lances up to his nerveless fingers. He loses his grip but manages still to hit the target. The squealing thrum of the Jedi's saber enters the fray and he grins.

Between the Jedi's whirling blade of death and the relentless rain of the Mandalorian's blaster, the rest of the troopers are quick work. Eight fall outside the Crest, along with however many perished with the carrier.

Mando kicks the bodies away from the door. He sees that in bypassing the mechanism they've destroyed it. It will not open. Leaning against the hull, he turns and considers the Jedi who still holds his blade in caution. That's fine. Either he recognizes that there's still an Imperial stronghold on planet or he views Mando as a threat. If it's the former, Mando's glad for his preparedness. If the latter then it's unnecessary, but gratifying.

In any case, Mando decides, there's no use sticking around.

"Do you have a call sign?" he asks.

After a moment, the Jedi returns the saber canister to his belt. "Call me Marcus," he says.

"Mando." 

"Well I guess you get points for originality."

"Yeah," he huffs. "Want to know what I call this old razorcrest?"

"What?"

"RazorCrest."

"Yikes," Marcus laughs, and after a moment he climbs into the X-Wing's cockpit and retrieves a text. Just one. Illegibly written in a language Mando doesn't understand--but when it finally rests in his hands it feels like a promise.

They agree to meet on Nevarro in three days. 

\---

Once the Jedi is gone and the Crest's breach has been sealed, once the ship is in hyperspace and the Kid is asleep, Din takes off his bracers. His hands shake while he sets aside the discolored metal and peels back what's left of his sleeves. The skin beneath is angry and blistered. There's not enough bacta left for a full treatment, not with patches of middling quality, but Din breathes in relief anyway. There's still skin over his muscles. There are still muscles on his bones. There is still bone down to the tips of his fingers.

\---

"A Jedi, you say? A real Jedi?" Greef Karga's image flickers in blue.

"Real, fake, I don't know the difference. But he moved in ways a human can't and he had an energy-based saber. He did things I've only seen the Kid do only he never passed out after."

"Hmm. What did you say his name was?"

"'Call me Marcus,' he said."

"Marcus. Marcus…I haven't heard of any Force-sensitives named Marcus. And you said he flew an X-Wing?"

"Rebel stripes and everything."

"Fine. I'll see what I can dig up. Perhaps Cara's heard of him. I assume you'll be here early?"

"I will. "

\---

He stops first on a planet with soft moss and vines. "This is what I've found," he tells to them, but there's as little recognition with the Elders as with him. The book and its language are a mystery and none know the Jedi. All the Jedi the Elders had known are dead.

\---

It's three days later and Din is uncomfortable.

That in itself is not new. Discomfort is essentially his way of life. But battling elements, Jedi, or stormtroopers are small annoyances when compared to the disquiet that rattles in his chest when the Kid is involved. It could be said that this, too, is his way of life. It is why the Child is deep in the covert, gurgling happily with The Armorer, why Mando's resupplied with re-tempered beskar. The chastening he received for the state of his armor was worth it because down below, Din's allies can't be bought. 

The Jedi wants to meet the Child. They sit in the cantina on Nevarro, being watchfully ignored by Cara Dune and Greef Karga. There are no new faces aside from the Jedi, but a bounty hunter's first loyalty is credits and for all he knows "Call Me Marcus" just might have deep pockets.

There is no point to pleasantries. Sitting across from the blue eyed Jedi, Mando doesn't offer any.

"If you're already a Jedi," he starts, "what do you want with the books?"

Marcus is not thrown off. He seems relaxed--at ease, even, despite the noise and the bravado and the weapons of the bounty hunters around them. He throws an arm over the back of his booth. "The Emperor may have wiped out the Jedi Order, but he couldn't stop people from connecting with the Force. There's a group," he says and Mando understands that this means the New Republic, "that wants to start a school."

"A school."

"Yes!" he exclaims softly, leaning over the table in his enthusiasm, "A school where people like your son can learn the ways of the Force. Being a Jedi is about more than just swinging a lightsaber--and those texts from Vandor can help bring that knowledge back."

Part of him doesn't want to--but by his creed, to do right by the Child, Din asks: "This school. Would it be safe?"

"You mean, would your son be safe from Imperials?"

"He's--" _not my son,_ he can't say. "…would he be safe?"

"That depends, I guess. What is it about this kid that the remnants want so badly and how far are they willing to go to get him?"

"They were willing enough to pay a bounty hunter an entire camtono of beskar to find him. When they couldn't keep him they sent a few hit squads."

"But still, Force-sensitives are everywhere. What's so special about this one?"

"I can't say. But I can show you."

Mando ends up leading him through a maze of markets and back alleys. It takes twice as much time to reach the meeting place, turns and switchbacks making the path disorienting. The Jedi plays along, even with Cara Dune's weapon trained on his back. 

Finally they descend into the halls of the covert. The sunlight disappears and takes clear vision with it but Mando lets out a shrill whistle before the Jedi's eyes can adjust. 

Down the long, concrete corridor, tiny green feet take a sharp corner at an accelerated waddle. High pitched squeals join the whistle's echo, and Din moves forward almost before he can think. He tells the others to stay back and meets the Child halfway. "Hey, ya little womprat." 

He hears the second the Jedi's eyes adjust. There's a gasp, a word, the half-formed breath of an unfamiliar name. 

Every inch of the Mandalorian's frame turns to sharp points and hard edges. He tucks the Child under one arm, out of sight. "You know him?" 

"…No. No, I--He reminds me of someone," Marcus says with a shade of grief. "I've never seen a child like that before." 

It sounds like honesty. It sounds like evasion.

Cara eyes the three of them, but something snags her attention down the way they came. Her head turns quickly and he hears it: footsteps. Two sets. One shuffling, quick, nervous. The other solid, confident.

Mando fixes the aim of his vambrace onto the Jedi, who immediately lifts his hands away from his weapons. Cara turns the way they came, weapon trained towards the sunlight.

It's Greef Karga's voice that calls out, as steady as his steps. "Mando," echoes down the hall, "You've got company." 

Around the corner two bodies turn. Karga's familiar shape shoves a second man in front of him. 

Lean, frightful. A dark man with a short beard. Mando knows his face, knows his round glasses, knows his tremulous countenance. A small green hand reaches out to squeeze. The Child does, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all I think I might need a beta. I keep catching dumb mistakes like the 12th time I read for editing :(


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